The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1) (25 page)

She had prepared for choices, but not this. She brushed away
a curl that had lengthened in the months of flight and discovery, upheaval and
captivity, and breathed the words before Nathaniel could stop her.

“What do you need?”

“Only a hint, my child. I already know you headed east from
Riverbend, looking for mountainous terrain and a path north along the river, but
we’ve searched and found nothing. Help us take the next step.” His voice became
soothing. “Is that so much of a compromise compared to what I offer in return?
Why miss the opportunity to be together?”

“River something?” Nathaniel said. “We’ve never heard of
such a town,”

“Of course you have, as surely as you grew up in Little
Pond. Beyond tracking you there, I have in my files the official testimony of
the shoemaker’s daughter... from her teaching.”

Orah charged forward and planted her small fists on the desk
with such force the arch vicar fell back. “She’s underage, too young for a
teaching.”

“My child, the Temple is governed by precepts and rules.
Precepts are handed down from the light and are immutable, but the council
determines rules. An orphan may be taught early, if necessary. I had the
authority to issue such a dispensation, and she has benefited as a result.”

Orah swallowed hard and stepped back. Without taking her
eyes off the arch vicar, she groped for Nathaniel’s hand. Their fingertips
touched, and their fingers wove together as one. His strength surged through
her as she spoke.

“We have nothing more to say.”

The arch vicar aged before them. His trappings of office
lost their power. “Very well. I don’t need to know the location of the keep,
only that its secret will never be revealed. You’ll be our guests for the rest
of your lives, and the secret will die with you.”

He moved a finger to press a button on the desk—a signal to
the deacons—but his finger hovered, hesitating. He handed her back the log. “I’ll
summon you again in a month to check if you changed your mind. In the meantime,
this belongs to you and has pages left to fill. If you run out of paper, tell
the guards, and I’ll provide as much as you need. You’ll have plenty of time to
chronicle your life, though I suspect you’ll find little to say as the years of
tedium drag on.”

He took his seat behind the desk and scanned the messages as
if rereading them.

When he resumed, his voice chilled like a winter wind. “I
can do worse. I can put you in separate cells or send one of you to another
Temple City so far away you’ll never see each other again. Take a month to
ponder this. The keep stayed hidden for centuries, and you only stumbled upon
it with my help. Now you’ve spent weeks spreading these so-called truths, yet
the children still live in the light. No one wants what the keep offers. Hiding
its location will accomplish nothing but split you apart.” He crumpled the
messages and waved them in her face. “One month. Your final chance.”

***

After they left, the arch vicar collapsed in his chair. He
removed the black hat with the red stripes earned over so many years and wiped
the moisture from his head. When he finished, the few strands of gray that
remained lay plastered to his scalp.

What made them so willing to sacrifice so much? Had the
founders of the keep left the world a better place? Was it so vital to
contravene the order of things, to be able to fly or challenge the heavens? Did
they need to develop such efficient ways to kill? He denied the darkness not
because of what he’d been taught in the seminary, but because of the light he’d
found in his own heart.

Yet these two also believed in something—the misguided
ideals of the keep—with the same ferocity. He shook his head. They’d never
tell. They’d tasted from the fruit of the tree of knowledge and would always
want more. But despite their foray into the darkness, their friendship—their
love—was of the light.

He’d used it against them.

What had the slightest hope of finding the keep made him do?
Offer a choice that would torment them to the end of their days. Did their sin
warrant such punishment, when he’d nearly succumbed himself?

He studied his oversized hands. They might have been the
hands of a bricklayer, but he’d chosen to wield power instead. He’d been
wielding power for too long.

No. He’d never follow through with his threat. He no longer
cared what the younger vicars thought. Maybe he lacked the resolve to become
grand vicar after all. If they refused to divulge the location of the keep in a
month, he’d leave them be, to live out their lives locked away but with each
other. Then he’d wash his hands of the whole affair. No need to do more.

The age of the keep had passed.

The spinner was stacking yarn in the stockroom when the bell
at the front door jingled—his wife and daughter returning from Adamsville. He
dropped his work, brushed back his thinning hair and rushed out to greet them.

He hugged his wife, grasped the eight-year-old by the hands
and inspected her from head to toe. “Two weeks gone, and as I suspected, you’ve
grown an inch.”

His wife laughed. “My mother gets to feed her only a few
days each year and takes full advantage.”

“How was your trip?”

“Long, as usual.”

He noted their clothing, covered with the dust of the
road—they’d need a thorough cleaning. “Any news from the towns to the east?”

The woman’s face settled into a frown. “Odd things are
about. Postings, like those of the Temple, but not from the vicars. For a while,
I hear, they appeared daily, but then stopped.”

“What did they say?”

“Complaints of the kind usually spoken in private.
Accusations against the vicars, but with details to back them up. Here. I can
show you.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You brought some?”

She removed her pack and pulled out a wrinkled sheet of
paper.

“Not the ones in Temple lettering. The deacons ripped those
down, but people took to copying them by hand and passing them around. They say
the spinner of Adamsville closes his shop at noon so he can spend the rest of
the day writing. Look for yourself.”

He took the page and started to read. As memories of his own
teaching flared, his hands began to tremble.

His wife brushed his arm with her fingertips. “Rumors say it’s
the work of young people from Little Pond, two boys and a girl.”

He glanced up. “The Weber girl?”

“And her two friends who went missing last spring.”

He read another line but paused as a thought struck him. “Why
did it stop?”

“What?”

“The postings.”

“Caught, I suppose.”

“The Weber girl?” His voice quivered as he pictured her in
the hands of the deacons.

“Could be.”

“I knew the father before he died. I still see the mother.
With husband and daughter gone, she seems shattered.”

He finished the page. At its bottom, it bore the words,
The
Seekers of Truth
. Below the signature, someone had scrawled an additional
phrase:
Please make copies and pass them on
.

“Do you have others?”

She reached into the pack and handed him three more.

“I’ll need a pen as well.”

“What for?” she said.

“I have copying to do.”

Orah startled awake to the sound of a bolt releasing. What
now? The deacons usually left them alone this late in the evening.

She swung her feet to the floor and
combed back her hair with her fingers, as if she cared what the guards thought.

But the intruder was no deacon.

“Well, Orah of Little Pond, you seem to be in a bit of
trouble.”

“Thomas!”

Her friend hushed her with a finger to her lips and squatted
by her side. “Do exactly as I say. Count to sixty, saying one Little Pond, two
Little Pond, as we used to when we played hide-and-seek. When you reach thirty,
leave the cell. At forty, release Nathaniel. Be sure to close both bolts behind
you. At sixty, be by the exit at the end of the hall. I’ll unlock the door from
the far side. Nod if you understand.”

She nodded.

As quickly as Thomas had appeared, he vanished.

She rubbed her eyes. A dream? She
longed to believe and began counting.

...twenty-nine Little Pond, thirty
. She pushed and
the door swung wide. Her heart pounded.

...thirty-nine, forty
. Nathaniel stood within reach,
gaping at her. His lips parted to form a question, but she froze him with a
glance and led him away by the wrist.

...forty-eight Little Pond, forty-nine
. She slid both
bolts closed and dashed to the end of the hall.

...fifty-nine, sixty
. The snap of a lock releasing, a
creaking sound.

She gasped at the figure in the doorway. “Thomas. But how—”

He silenced her with a slash of his hand. “No more talking
till we’re out of the city. Now follow me.”

He locked the door behind them and took off, leaving her and
Nathaniel to hobble after. He flew down the hall and bounded up a stairway at
its end, taking two steps at a time. When they finally reached the top, he
yanked them into a doorway on the left, the entrance to the temple laundry,
which had been abandoned for the night. In one corner lay a pile of soiled
clothing. He handed each of them a set to put on over their own while he did
the same. His guess at their fit seemed flawless, even finding a smock long
enough to cover Nathaniel’s arms.

Orah stretched a cook’s cap over her
head, stuffing her hair underneath.

“Now do as I do,” Thomas whispered. “No questions.”

He handed each a warm bundle tied in cloth, and limped off as
if his feet hurt from standing all day. Orah drifted to one side and Nathaniel
to the other, mimicking his gait. He whispered nonsense to them as they went,
every so often breaking into laughter of the kind unlikely to come from someone
trying to avoid attention. At one point, he dug an elbow into Orah’s ribs to
force a giggle and drive the terror from her eyes.

At the end of a passage, they came to an archway opening to
the outside. A bored deacon slumped in a chair by the door. He roused as they
approached, straightened his tunic and stood to block their way. “Leaving early
tonight, are we?”

“Charlie-boy let me off,” Thomas said in a hearty voice,
only false-sounding to those who knew him well. “My birthday. Gave me a bunch
of leftovers for the celebration.” He gestured to the bags they carried, ripe
with the aroma of freshly-roasted pork. “I brought plenty. Care for a bite?”

The guard’s demeanor lightened when he inhaled the scent. He
smacked his lips and rubbed his stomach.

Thomas dug into his bundle and pulled out a half-loaf
dripping with meat. “Here you go.”

The hungry guard accepted it with both hands. As he opened
his mouth to take a bite, they waved and left the building.

Once in the street, Thomas insisted they plod along to maintain
the pretense. One right turn, two lefts, and a secondary gate. Then Temple City
lay behind.

Orah paused to breathe in the
outdoors and beam at the full moon, but she had no time to savor the moment.

Thomas flashed his mischievous grin as he used to when playing
a prank in school, but only for a second. Then he proclaimed in a whisper, “Now
run for your life and don’t stop till you’re ready to drop.”

***

Orah’s lungs burned, but she refused to give in first. She reveled
in the cold, the night sky, and the three of them together again. Her hope had
returned, at least for a while.

Nathaniel jogged ahead, but slowed suddenly and threw up his
hands, grimacing in pain.

She came to a stop by his side, with
Thomas right behind. They’d been running for hours.

She lacked the breath to speak but motioned them deeper into
the woods. Best not to take chances with their newfound freedom, and she needed
to understand their circumstance.

Once out of sight of the trail, they peeled off their soiled
kitchen clothing and buried them beneath a pile of leaves. Then the two former
captives collapsed on a log, while Thomas passed out the water skins he’d
brought.

“Thomas,” she said between gulps of sweet water. “You are
amazing. How did you do it?”

He told them about the two shafts leading downward and how
he’d used his climbing skills to explore. One led to their cells and the other
to the far side of the main prison door. Using a potato stolen from the
kitchen, he’d stuffed a slice into the latch of his room, not too big to be
seen, but enough to keep the lock from closing fully. That let him sneak out at
will and practice until he could set them free, climb back up and unlock the
exit, all within a count of sixty.

His eyes sparkled as he spoke, reflecting the slivers of
moonlight that slipped through the branches of the bare November trees.

“You might have been caught. How did you know the way would
be clear?”

“Every night, I waited until the guards and prisoners
finished dinner, then I took a pouch of flour from the storeroom—too little to
be missed—and climbed down the rope. I sprinkled a dusting on the floor and
checked for footprints the next morning. I started early in the evening and
late the next morning, narrowing the times until no footprints appeared.

“The rest was easy. I watched where the workers took the
laundry carts. The hardest part was finding clothing to fit Nathaniel. I had no
problem taking food—the kitchen folk always bring leftovers home. Then I waited
for a moonlit night so we could run without breaking a leg.”

Nathaniel slapped him on the back, and Orah viewed him anew.
He seemed to grow taller before her eyes, as if the burden of the teaching had
been lifted. “That’s... brilliant, Thomas. So much planning, so many details.”

She imagined he must have blushed, but his grin shone in the
dark. “Maybe I spent too much time with you.”

As she embraced him, a thought struck and she pulled back. “So
how much time
do
we have?”

He narrowed his eyes and calculated in his head. “Six, maybe
seven hours before they discover we’re gone.”

“Six hours. What are we waiting for?”

“I thought you needed to rest.”

She glanced from Thomas to Nathaniel, ignored the ache in
her chest, and sucked in a breath. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

***

Thomas urged his friends to keep running until the sun rose
above the treetops, but soon they began to stagger. Nathaniel stumbled twice, and
Orah could hardly keep to a straight line. On his own, he might reach Little
Pond in less than a day, but the newly released prisoners, weakened by weeks of
confinement, wouldn’t make it without rest.

He signaled for them to stop. “Enough, before the two of you
pass out on the road.”

Nathaniel doubled over, palms resting on his knees, while
Orah braced her back with her hands, trying to expand her lungs. She shook her
head long before she had breath enough to speak.

“We... keep going,” she said between gasps.

“No,” Thomas said. “We find a clearing in the woods and get
some sleep.”

She dropped to one knee, looking as though she might be
sick. “I’m not going back. I’m never going back.”

She tried to say more, but lacked air to speak—nothing remained
but her will.

He eased her up by the elbow as he had the day they’d
discovered the Temple of Truth. “No, Orah, this time it’s my adventure, and I
say we rest.”

For once, she gave in. With his support, she lurched to her
feet and collapsed in his arms.

***

Thomas sat on his haunches, watching his friends sleep and
wondering. Why had he taken such a risk? For friendship, of course, but also
for something more. To give them the chance to be together again, to grant them
the happiness he hoped to find someday for himself.

He waited, tracking the shadow receding along the ground,
hoping the sunlight would wake them. When neither stirred, he stepped closer
and nudged them with the toe of his boot. “Time to go.”

Orah sat up, stretched her arms over her head and turned to
the warmth from above. “Praise the sun, giver of life. What a day.”

“I thought you vowed never to say that again.”

“I know, but the sunlight feels so good.”

She staggered to her feet and attempted an awkward spin, but
then stumbled and stopped. Her shoulders slumped as the reality of their
situation struck. The exhilaration of the night’s flight faded, and daylight
exposed worry lines around her eyes.

“But where?” she said. “Where can we go that will be safe?”

Thomas shrugged. “I got us out of Temple City. I assumed you
two would figure out the rest.”

Nathaniel scrambled to his feet and tried to rub sleep away.
“Where are we?”

Thomas waved his arms and circled about. “In the Ponds, I’d
guess a day’s walk from home.”

Nathaniel gazed at the road ahead. “Little Pond. I’d love to
go there, but won’t the vicars be waiting with their fast wagons?”

Thomas frowned. “I did the best I could. Only two places
offered hope—the keep and Little Pond. The keep was too far away, and a part of
me longed to go home.”

Orah pressed her palm to his cheek. “You did well, Thomas.
The deacons have been searching Riverbend. We’d have run right into them if we
got that far.”

Thomas held his head still, savoring his reward, but not for
long. The sun was racing across the sky. “They’ll be after us by now. We need
to get going, but where?”

Nathaniel strode forward, the resolve gathering in his eyes.
“We’ll go to the granite mountains and cross the pass I found to the ocean. No
one will look for us there.”

Orah glanced up as she combed mud and dried leaves from her
hair. “Winter’s coming. We’ll need provisions and tools to survive, and fresh
clothing. Mine are all wet, and I’m chilled to the bone.”

Thomas watched the minds of his friends churn, planning as
they’d done so often before. He was relieved to be free of the responsibility.

“We’ll go to the NOT tree,” Nathaniel said, “keeping to back
trails. From there, we’ll scout out Little Pond and check for deacons, then
sneak in to gather supplies. We can rest in the shelter before heading to the
mountains, regain our strength before scaling those peaks.”

Thomas looked at him skeptically. “Then what?”

Nathaniel shrugged. “I don’t know. Winter by the ocean, make
a shelter or find a cave, catch fish to eat and wait till spring.”

Thomas cocked his head to one side. “And when it’s
warmer...?”

Orah hooked arms with Nathaniel. She smiled and winked. “We’ll
build a boat and sail off to the new land.”

“You’ve both gone daft in those cells. We’d have no chance.”

“That’s what you said about finding the keep.”

Dreamers. I had to pick dreamers for friends
. But he
had no better option. He flashed his grin. “All right then. I never liked
kitchen work anyway.”

What did it matter? He’d made his choice on the steps of the
Temple of Truth, on that near-perfect September day that seemed so long ago.
Now the cost of that decision had come due. Better to die in the mountains or
on the ocean than in the hands of the vicars. Better to die with his friends.